It is an allegory. It is steampunk. It is a little bit novel. It is now available from Amazon and other major book distributors – also from your favoite bookstore – ask for it. Here is a sample of my favorite characters and my favorite chapter.
| Stalking the Sleuth |
Traveler was being followed. He sensed it from the moment he exited the train. It was a new sensation. For the traveler, open and transparent as he was, was still used to being nearly invisible, sleuthing from the sidelines. It did not feel like a malicious sort of stalking, it was more like shadowing, anticipating. For instance, how did this person whom he had not yet seen – merely felt the eyes and their constant following of his every move – how did this person know he would be on the train? Traveler had not known himself whether he would drive or ride until a few hours before departure. Traveler stood for a moment on the station platform and wished he had his Convie. What am I thinking, he asked himself. I have two sturdy legs and walking is so beneficial to clarity of conclusion.
Followed or not, he was hungry. He turned into his favorite establishment on the wharf and ordered a basket of fish and chips and half a pint of the local ale. Fishing nets and colorful floats adorned the walls. Over the years, hardwood floorboards had been worn to a patina by the constant comings and goings of locals and tourists. Places this popular rarely have extraneous personal space. Every inch was shared with a constantly undulating crowd. Traveler was no sooner seated at a table then he was joined in quick succession by three other persons, two male, one female, constantly in motion changing places like musical chairs as an order number was announced or someone spied a friend, waved, and changed position.
Receiving his order, Traveler closed his eyes and savored the fried sea aroma curling up from the steam. Another basket slid onto the table and a sinewy male eased expertly into the neighboring seat.
“What is your interest in my sister?”
Traveler looked up into cool and intelligent blue eyes and held their gaze for a few seconds.
“Sean Journey, analyst,” said the man, extending a hand.
The traveler shook hands silently, reached for the malt vinegar, fingered a chip and waited.
“You show up in the city and ask background questions of the flakey receptionist. Next, on a road trip, you stop at a little café that just happens to be owned by my parents. No doubt, they gave you volumes of information couched in opinion. Assuming you were capable of distilling the information from the opinion; your next stop was obviously here, where my sister spent some of the most enjoyable and enlightening years of her life.”
“You have tracked me this far, including following me from the train station. You are an analyst.” Traveler met Sean’s eyes again and continued, “You have to ask what my interest is in your sister?” he paused. “I wear a trench coat, I have a fedora, how is it you did not assume I am a private investigator hired by the man himself to track Precious?”
“Puh!” The analyst nearly spat. “That man never had a modicum of initiative. He could find her easily enough on his own if he cared to take the trouble.”
“He wants her back.”
“He wants her to come back, you mean –without him lifting a finger.”
“You have a close connection with your sister.” It was a statement, not a question.
“My sister is kind and caring. Growing up twenty months apart, it felt like we were twins. She protected me. She is a very loyal person.”
Traveler began, “You say Precious is kind, caring and loyal. It seems so out of character for her – from what I have learned of her character – that she would leave the man.” Again, it was an observation, not a question, and the traveler took time to bite off a portion of batter-dipped cod and chew thoughtfully.
The analyst fetched a checkered napkin, wiped his mouth and again made eye contact.
“Precious has an Achilles heel.”
Traveler raised an eyebrow.
“She can’t help rescuing people.”
“That is the compassionate thing to do,” shrugged the traveler.
“Once she rescues them, they make her feel responsible to care for them. When she draws a line and is no longer responsive to plaintive whining, they accuse her of being insensitive.”
Traveler thought back to the helpless wail that first drew his attention to the cave.
“How did she come to connect with the man in the first place?”
“It was here, at the Western Conservatory of Earth Studies. Precious had a work-study assignment in the botany department. She was building the terrace at Salt Park. It looks out over the bay. The botany department was eradicating noxious weeds and studying plants native to the area. The man, as you already know, was a botany student. His field study and her work shifts overlapped.
“She was cute. She had a fascinating set of tools, so he followed her around like a puppy. And she responded to his needs, encouraging him, complimenting him, building him up.”
“So Precious encourages people and builds them up?”
“Yes, she is always adapting and giving the benefit of the doubt. As a result, people depend on her.”
“It is a credit to her strength of character that your mother has not prevailed on her to move back home.”
“Yes. And one of the greatest disappointments of my mother’s life to find that they are not joined at the hip in every opinion.”
| Salt Water Park |
Traveler’s basket was empty. The two men rose together in a sort of natural synchrony and headed out the door. Traveler set a course for Salt Water Park and Sean Journey fell into step beside him.
“We have dined together with perceptive conversation,” stated Journey, “but you have not yet identified yourself and your interest.”
Again Traveler mused on the oft-asked question. He preferred not to answer directly. There is no succinct and simple way to reply; “I am a traveler, scribe and cycloptic seer for the core.” It leads only to complication. First, most people think you are joking. The common man, meaning the majority of homo sapiens populating the earth, would guffaw and snort, “You think you go around seeing Cyclops?” Sean Journey was a human of no ordinary intellect. He had shared honestly. The ball was now in Traveler’s court.
“I am a traveler, scribe, and cycloptic seer for the core,” he replied.
“Meaning you work for the Cranial Reservoir,” stated Sean. “Why the qualifier, cycloptic?”
“I am a visionary of only one eye,” said Traveler. “Were I to see with both eyes, I would be omniscient, omnipotent. As it is, I observe wisdom. I am able to see imperfectly into the behavior and motivation of others. Once glimpsed, the motivation and personality fascinates me. I travel to ferret out the needed wisdom for each relationship observed. I scribe. The results of seeing and scribing are uploaded to the global Cranial Reservoir – all the collected wisdom of the ages.”
“You upload directly to the Cranial Reservoir?” queried Sean.
Traveler smiled, “There is a good bit of residue and affinity for the past in me. I first make my notes on papyrus tablet. The very act of writing is stimulating to thought – therapeutic to confusion. Once I reach the conclusion, my results teletransport to the core cranium.”
“They pay you to upload facts?”
“Sometimes hard facts; more often truth couched in myth.”
“I have accessed the Cranial Reservoir many times in my profession – more often in the classifications of military behavior.”
“My work is about relationships.”
As the analytical silence grew, the men sat musing with similarity of mind. Sean absently caressed a Michaelmas aster and then hefted a black volcaniclastic rock the size of a bowling ball. Fire glass.
“All that rot about Precious loving rocks inordinately? The goblin princess accusation?” said Sean. “Precious loves rocks for what they are, a normal part of our earth surroundings. She also, as you know, loves jewels and gold and silver – for their excellence. The man, he tends to objectify. He loved rocks only because they were pretty – and because Precious was good at rocks. He is a covetous being. He craves for himself everything someone else has. Precious was naturally gifted with the ability to know just which rock fit in which space as she built that terrace with our father, Petros. Then, she went to college and graduate school to find out the latest techniques for identifying gold and minerals. The man, on the other hand, absorbed Precious’s successes for himself along with appropriating her tools. He seemed to think whatever Precious did, he could do better just because he was the masculine portion of the team. He wanted to stay home and enjoy rocks without having made any effort to learn about them.”
Again, Sean and the Traveler rose from their flagstone seats in tandem. As though with one mind, they headed toward the beach. As they walked, Sean probed for more details about Traveler’s work. “What do you consider your most valuable contribution to the Core – to the Cranium?” asked the analyst.
“Frankly, I come to many conclusions that I choose not to upload to the Cranial Reservoir.”
“You remain covert? You withhold information?” queried the analyst, almost, but not quite accusingly.
“That is one thing I would never willingly do: withhold a discovery that would make life better for all. But there is significant danger in serving up truth before the time is right. Precipitous truth could cause a Lady MacBeth situation on your hands.
“You understand the process, of course. After much research and observation, information is uploaded / teleported to the Reservoir. Everyone has access to the Reservoir — and the Cranium, but few go to the bother to digest and think. It is much easier to let others digest the information and broadcast it in 60-second sound bites. Besides, the process to final truth and familiarity with the Universal Cranium is life-long and seems unrewarding to the average seeker.
“Once the information reaches the Cranium, it goes through an extensive process. Anything that is not precise truth is sloughed off. Unscrupulous – or maybe just ignorant- individuals harvest the debris and make their living – and their power – from it. It is this detritus in the hands of well-meaning, but misguided individuals that can inadvertently cause spiritual abuse or emotional abuse. Detritus adds a lot of pressure, stress to the lives of sensitive souls. I want to be overly careful. That is why I withhold; until I am sure – sure that everything I upload is precise – so that I do not add to the detritus.
“There are things that people believe so heartily to be truth they would stake their life on it – maybe your life too. For instance: you must have meat and eggs for breakfast before you have pie.” Traveler paused, and then asked the rhetorical question, “Is it wise to eat a healthful breakfast before pie? Yes. Might an omelet serve the purpose just as well – or better- than biscuits and gravy?” Traveler raised his eyebrows into question marks.
The analyst gave a rueful smile.
Traveler continued, “Is it imperative that children respect their parents? Yes. Must adult children follow every word of advice that falls from the lips of antiquated ancestors in order to show that respect?” Traveler paused for a moment and let the question hover. “Myths that hold the essence of truth may cause simple minds to make a shrine of the shell. They worship the vehicle of truth rather than the truth. They make sacred the cow rather than simply being nourished by the meat.”
It was not often Sean Journey found himself in the presence of someone both safe and intellectual. He proffered a rare insight from his personal life. “I respect my dad for his philosophical, good-hearted patience and perseverance. I love my mother because she gave birth to me and nourished me, meeting my basic needs when I was young. But very seldom do I find it comfortable to visit Castle Rook.”
